


Hero

by DozingNeko



Series: Johnlock "Daily" Prompts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Power Bottom John, bottom!John, don't be a fool, handjobs, safe sex, top!Sherlock, wrap your tool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DozingNeko/pseuds/DozingNeko
Summary: John is always saving me.





	Hero

Let it be said that John is not a very surprising human being. He wakes up at five-thirty every morning, showers, shaves, combs his hair, starts a pot of tea while in a bathrobe, pops bread in the toaster, and ran to get dressed. He returns a few minutes later, fully dressed, hair still damp, quickly drinks down a cup of tea, smears his toast with marmalade, makes the two slices into a sandwich, washes it down with tea, brushes his teeth, and scurries away to work. He doesn't drink coffee at home, but dislikes tea he doesn't make. It's one of the few reasons I do not offer to make tea.

His most expensive loafers are his date shoes, a subtly thick rubber sole giving him a few extra vertical centimetres and a black and white jumper that did wonders for his figure, and a pair of dark jeans that were slightly tighter than his others, a pair which I pointedly did not deduce when John first wore them, and only hummed about when the doctor had asked, _“how do I look?”_

After a good day at work, he returns with a coffee in hand from a horrific little stand near his surgery and chimes, _“I'm back!”_ as if I could not recognise his absence and subsequent arrival. He sits with me for hours talking about his shift, ask me about my experiments, gives me a playfully annoyed look when I tell him about the volatile acids on our dining table.

On a bad day, John slams the door and stomps up to his room, hastily changes out of his work clothes and into a terrifying vermilion vee neck jumper, a white t-shirt beneath that and ill fitting sweatpants. He doesn't speak unless prompted, and even still, they are not at all kind words, irate snappings of an injured beast, rather. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson nor I take his moods to heart, instead silently pitying him and furious with whoever put our tame companion in such a state.

The day winds up being the former, John snickering and happy, pleas and thanks for the tea the landlady offers that he would only drink a third of. A case from Lestrade has us in a abattoir, hung from separate hooks and gradually approaching a gyrating saw blade, camera facing us with one unblinking red eye.

John's binds, tied like shite, are rather easy to disentangle from the meat hook. In a rush, he releases his legs from the haphazard knots and runs to hoist me up with his shoulders, helping me get down, falling down with an almighty squawk of surprise and a cloud of dust and debris, and what would likely wind up being an incredible bruise in the centre of his chest and the length of his back.

Covered in cow and pig blood, we walk back to NSY to assist with investigating the photo and textual evidence. I track our would-be murderer to a warehouse and arrest him. Lestrade retires us for the night and we are driven home by an officer in uniform, since we know no cabs would pick us up - I have first hand knowledge of that.

Upon entering the flat, I grab him by the collar of his jumper, pleased with his wild grin. “You saved my life.” I inform him seriously, laughing up two puffs of air.

“Of course I did.” John takes me by my arms, dark eyes flicking mirthfully. “I always do, you wonderful bastard-"

He yanks me down and kisses me hard on my mouth and shoves be back, still smiling in that all-consuming, obtuse way. “I owe you everything, J- _mph-!”_ I grunt as he hugs me tightly, squashing the air from my lungs.

“Would you quit getting me almost killed, you madman?” He demands, cupping the sides of my head and making me look at him. “My nine lives are running out.”

I laugh, he always makes me snicker inappropriately. “You wouldn't trade mortal danger for anything.” I remind him, not bothering to stifle my surprise when he yanked me into another case-drugged peck.

John does not cease chuckling, his amusement growing to a gurgle of laughter. “You know me too well, you insufferable prick.” He teases, kissing me once more, a series of short presses from his dry lips, then harder, before pausing with wide eyes.

Standing at my feet, John looks halfway between terrified and ashamed. “Hello.” I say shyly, my face warming, no doubt glowing pink.

“Sorry. I-”

I launch myself downwards to kiss him once more, scrabbling for purchase as he drags me away from the wall and against his chest. The antique wallpaper is cold and smooth beneath my fingertips, the hands on my buttocks firm and rough and merciless as he drags me closer to his body, my slowly exciting groin against his abdomen and my back bent a few centimetres to accommodate our height difference. My feet shuffle uselessly against the wooden floor, his fingers press firmly into the underside of my arse.

Effortlessly, John takes control of our kiss, opening his mouth to bite my lips, forcing his tongue into my mouth, erotically sucking my tongue, raising his hips to buck against mine, allowing me to feel his solid cock against my partial.

_“Jurhn,”_ I say, though it's garbled as I can scarcely speak with how voraciously he's sucking and biting my mouth. My lips feel big and hot and clumsy, but it's perfect, and my brain will hardly kickstart to inform me of how to react, that I should hold his cheek in my hand, rake my fingers through his hair, decipher whether it was wiry or feathery or downy or... bloody... anything other than the current buzz of white noise.

I can't be arsed to be alarmed when my shirt was tugged from my trousers, my wool coat pushed backwards, over my shoulders yet catching on my biceps. _“Bloody fucking fuck,”_ he breathes absently into my mouth. As my eyes open, I catch his drowsy gaze, “we should stop.” He says, and he sounds like he means it, yet he does not fight when I snog him again.

“Long enough to go upstairs.” I supply blithely, feeling him smirk against my lips.

He giggles, nodding slightly before going at my throat, licking and kissing, inviting me to feel the sting of his teeth on my skin. He moans when I thrust my hips against him, pulling me away by my hair and smiles at me. “Upstairs.” He orders me, holding me by the elbow and guiding me towards the stairs.

Our arms lock, him holding my forearm and me holding his, both of us hurrying for the stairs. I shed my coat at once, smiling when John catches it before it can cover his head, then throws it over my chair.

“Couch.”

His sharp bark makes me tingle, my body numb as I collapse over the settee on my back, John settling over me at once and kissing me until I lose air. Now I claw at him, one hand over his backside, the other in his neatly clipped mane of sandy blond, wiry yet downy, not silky like my own. Soft yet unforgiving, just as the man himself, I muse while I push at his jacket, reduced to a wanton beast. Naturally it would be John goddamn Watson to bring me to such a state, smugness radiating off of him like fever as he drug out the removal of his jacket, relentlessly sucking my tongue as if he tasted the nectar of life.

“What are you thinking?” John asks as his outermost layer is lost to the darkness. His fingers pull my buttons from their coordinated holes and he nips at my skin.

A shocked yelp his all I can manage, my epidermis going alight at the sensation; sharp, managed pain in a tiny location. John allows me to thrash until the fight has poured from my body to accumulate a puddle on the cushion, and I am victim to every whim and whimsy. “Thinking?” I respond rather dumbly, holding the hair at the back of his head perhaps a bit too hard, but he hasn't mentioned it, and, come to notice, my other hand has slid upwards to fist his jumper.

John thrashes just a bit as he pulls off his jumper. I merely gasp as he descends upon me again, merciless as ever. Pinned beneath him, I muster somewhat of a struggle before he's taking me by the arms and trapping them above my head. He sucks my tongue once more, which is an embarrassingly effective method of sending my thoughts into a horrific train wreck. “Thinking.” He confirms once more, no more helpful than he was previously.

My mind clicks. What _am_ I thinking? “Need I narrate?” I decide to bemoan, riding up his shirt to stroke his skin, the fine hairs on his lower back.

_“Yes,”_ John growls into my ear, a warm puff on my sensitive skin, “every bloody, _excruciating_ detail.”

Something has developed in his voice, nearly becoming my undoing. The darkness of it pools deep in my groin. “John,” I return in a mimicry, rocking my hips up into his. “I beg you not to be difficult.”

“You _beg_ me?” He purrs, dragging me closer, biting my lip and sucking hard, until I can practically feel the blood vessels rupturing. A groan emanates from his chest, and his cock presses hard into my pubic bone. “I like you begging me. But I don't know what you'd have me do about it? I'm Mister Hard-To-Get.”

Keeping a straight face proves to be impossible. I snort and laugh, not stopping even add he kisses me again.

“Prick.” He scolds in good humour, sitting up to hurriedly rip off his sweater and polo. “I ought to leave you like-”

I cut him off by latching onto his midsection with a whine. “No, no, no! Don't leave me.” I sound whiny and desperate, but I feel whiny and desperate. I want John to be close, to feel his warm skin against mine. “I'm sorry.”

My body becomes gelatinous as his fingers root into my hair, guiding me back down onto my back. At once, I hide beneath my hands, because I'm a bloody _idiot._ I've as good as called my prospective bed partner a trollop. _Simpleton. Imbecile. Nudnik. Numbskull._ I seethe to myself, nearly in tears. “Sherlock.” John says tenderly, earning my undivided attention. Hesitantly, I bring my palms to either side of my head and staring at him. My gaze is cloudy with moisture already. _Blast._ The process of removing his jeans is halted by my outburst. “Are you-?”

_“No.”_ I interrupt hastily. John's face twists in sympathy. “I'm not crying. The oil from my hands... must've gotten in my lacrimal caruncle.”

Nodding in the face of my obvious lie, John bends down, leaving his trousers unbuttoned but zipped up. “You're a shit liar.” He kisses the tip of my nose, very gently.

“I'm not.” I find it in myself to say with a wet sniffle. “Forget it.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Please don't.”

John smiles slightly. “I won't. Would you like to go lie somewhere else?”

I frown. “Where would we...?”

Suddenly John is at my ear, breath warm and humid. “My bed.” He declares in a sultry voice. There's a sensation in my gut that I haven't felt since I was a very young man, and I know that John is about to bring me to orgasm with no physical stimuli. And God if that isn't the most erotic thing... “Mrs. Hudson won't hear you screaming for me to get you off.”

I catch his wrist as he goes to cup my groin, snapping, “John, no.” His expression is alarmed, blushing. “It has been a very _long_ time.”

Saying so makes him grin smugly. “Oh, I see.” He dips down once more to play with my earlobe, rolling it between his incisors.

“John. _Fuck,_ John, please.” I don't care that I'm whimpering and sobbing, but John wrenches my legs open and licks my ear lobe, sucking it into his mouth and tickling it, caressing it with his tongue. My spine is juttering, my brain doing a much too wonderful job of translating that sensation to my glans. _“Oh,”_

John continues to kiss and suck until I've sweat through what little clothing I've got left on, feeling as though I've wetted myself from the sheer alarming abundance of Cowper’s fluid I've released. “Upstairs?” He says softly, rising slightly to gaze down at me. All I can see is his limbic ring, indigo swallowed by pupil.

The erection I'm sporting throbs and aches, zipper digging painfully into my urethral opening. “Not sure I can walk,” I huff, watching John chuckle and beam at me in the way that dims the sun.

“Don't take this wrong way, but I do not think I could carry you up a flight of stairs.” He kisses my nose, then my upper lip, presses his tongue into my mouth, stroking the left side of my superior labial frenulum. “Grown man,” I make an embarrassing sound as he nuzzles closer, one hand flat against my scapula, “my bum shoulder.”

My breath hitches when I squirm, the sudden shift dragging our cocks together. _“Ah,_ John, I can't take any more. I'm going to orgasm in the next two seconds if you don't stop whatever the hell it is you're doing to me.”

He sits up and away, a crooked, toothy smirk on his face. “Alright, Sherlock, I'm off.” John concedes with his hands raised.

“Help me sit up and hobble up those stairs so I can do away with this obscene...” I gesture to my penis.

John glances at my predicament. “Boner.” He supplies, gently popping open my slacks and sliding down the zipper tab, each tooth at a time.

I snarl and blush, scratching at my hairline. “So crude, _oh fuck that's so much better,_ ” John snickers evilly, dragging my trousers down the length of my legs.

“I'm experienced when it comes to handling awkward stiffies.” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you feel better?” He asks, sitting on his haunches, observing me like a stalking panther. His eyes are dark, would be fathomless if he were facing away from the window which showered him in amber streetlight. Presently, I can't read his expression, though I'm certain I don't detect any malice. Impatience, perhaps.

I nod, swallowing and sitting up on my elbows. “If I believed in theology I would be asking for help right now.” I tell him casually, and he grins.

“I know.”

The statement makes me smile; I habitually turn away to shield it. “You're an idiot.” I rock myself up onto my palms, looking down at my legs. Trousers wadded up at my calves, socks and shoes on my feet still. I curse a blue streak in whatever language springs to my tongue first, which happens to be Albanian, I believe. John merely watches me in dumb amazement as I manage to pull off my shoes without untying them, yanking on and stretching my black socks until they popped off my feet. I don't know what I'm saying, something along the lines of, _“mjeku i pakompletuar - nuk mund të më zhbëjë edhe më saktë,”_ and here I thought I didn't know how to say “incompetent" in Albanian.

My superficial clothes are lost to the sitting room floor as I stand, muscles oddly tight, my prick heavy and hot and rather uncomfortable, compressed to me as it is. John smiles at me, worshipful, his lids heavy and lips parted. “You look-”

“Yes, yes, thin and gangly, you can see all of my ribs, the usual complaints. Upstairs, John.” I rush to derail his speech, my eyes watering once more and my face growing hot. His arm is in my palm and I drag him off and upstairs, hauling him through the threshold of his bedroom.

Fingers clamp around my hips and bring me flush to his chest. “I was going to call you lovely.” He informs me curtly, kissing the top of my shoulder.

I'm inches away from crying, I can feel the prickle in my eyes. “John. Bed.” I order as stern as I can bear.

His arms wrap about my midsection and guide me forward, until we're tumbling face first into his bed. It smells strongly of him, I acknowledge as I bury my face in his comforter. Like his aftershave and his body wash. I moan roughly into the soft fabric and John grins into my neck. “You're precious to me.”

“Of course.” I answer haughty to spite my blossoming embarrassment. _Why_ must John be the kindest yet most transparent human being?

John smiles, kissing my shoulder very gently with his dry, soft lips. It's comparable to a stroke of butterfly wings. I hardly manage to stifle the grunt in my trachea. “You could tell, I suppose? With the way I applied those stitches to your eyebrow after the Rosenbaum incident?” After a brief pause, he amends, “No, it'd probably be easier than that. Bet you heard your name while I was in the shower.”

My hips snap forward of their own volition. John smiles as I say his name as scoldingly as I've ever done.

“Is that a ‘no’?”

“You're merciless!”

John pats me on my rump as if we were no more than rugby mates while he stands up with a guttural nose that makes me whimper, embarrassingly enough. “Get all the way on the bed, all right?”

I clamber to obey, lying flat on my belly, stretched across his mattress with my eyes shut as tightly as I can manage. A goddamn miracle I haven't come yet, he hasn't said the perfect phrase to light my proverbial fuse.

The thought is barely through my bed before John has stripped his jeans and pants and jumped on the bed, flipping me over and sitting on my thighs. No longer can I breathe in the comforting scent, squeeze my eyelids together and attempt to anchor myself in obliviousness; now I've no choice but to stare up at him, taking in his every detail.

Scar on shoulder: _about two by three inches, longer horizontally than it is vertically. Went at least one hour without treatment. Wound festered for awhile before heading completely. Several months of physical therapy before regaining mobility, which his still much less than his dominant (left) hand._

Scarred knuckles: _brawler, aggressive individual - contradicts pacifist like way of engaging conflict, confirms violent way of “dealing with" conflict._

Knife wound at centre of chest: _grazed muscle, required a trip to hospital for bleeding and subdermal sutures. Kept him out of commission for several weeks, aside from visiting crime scenes and looking through case files. During which time he became increasingly agitated._

Fingernail scars on bicep: _earned the ire of previous romantic engagement. Likely due to some adulterous behaviour (unlikely) or perceived adulterous behaviour._

Slightly soft midsection: _BFP about 14%, due to lack of regular exercise and generous eating habits. Favorable to ARFID suffered years previous. Cares enough about himself to make an effort at staying alive._

Trimmed pubic hair: _likely expected to get a leg over either during the weekend or the previous week. Groomed for vanity’s sake despite the health benefits of pubic hair to sexual health._

Uncircumcised penis: _..._

I have half a mind to tap my palm against my temple to get my brain to work again. After my admittedly speedy perusal of John's body, I hardly expect to be taken up short by the sight of his genitalia. I chance a look up at him, reading his shy affection, before I'm looking at his penis again. Hardly admiring it, simply inspecting it. It's red and long, average sized, I guess, if a bit on the girthy side. Blood rushes to my face and my own empathetic erection as I stare - yes, stare - and unconsciously lick my lips.

John makes a little gasping noise, likely the most endearing sound he's ever made, and leans over me. “You okay?”

My mouth hangs open. It feels like my tendons have forgotten how they work. “Kiss.” I request meekly, my throat barely managing to cooperate as I swallow.

He does, but gently and briefly, nearly chaste. His touch lasts all of a moment before he pulls away. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” He all but commands. “I won't think less of you. I know sex is-”

“You're psyching me out.” I shout, holding the dome of his skull in my hands and bringing his lips to mine. He's smiling, I can feel, uttering a soft purr of contentment.

John murmurs apologies as he slides my pants down my hips. “Very well, Sherlock. But you _will_ tell me. God forbid I stop halfway through to ask if you're okay. Right when you're on the precipice-”

_“John!”_

He grins, evil prick, but leans over me to rummage quickly through his nightstand, dropping a blister pack of condoms and a tube of water based lubricant. My breath hitches as John sits up, towering over me for the first time in... ever, really. He simply exudes power, sat back on his heels, twisting open the slick. “Is it too forward of me to say,”

“Yes, probably,”

“that I'm impatient to feel you inside of me?” He raises his eyebrows and directs a sly look at me, raising up on his knees while his fingers roll together, laying on a thick sheen.

Words fail me once more. This is not what I expected, I admit. I had planned to be on the receiving end of penetrative intercourse. My mind was perfectly set to have my anus be touched and violated. Now I must recalibrate, quickly at that, at prepare for the rather definite prospect of John on my lap. My penis inside of John. “You...” I say, hoping he picks up on what my face is undoubtedly reading. I trust him to care for me, wholeheartedly, in this venture he leads me into.

His smile is warm. “Yes,” he brings his slippy hand behind him and hisses through his teeth, “god, yes, Sherlock.” His gaze is carnivorous on my face, examining my body as a predator does it's prey. He gazes at my prick, which lays hard and ready on my abdomen, leaking clear fluid which will soon roll down my sides if we're to continue at this pace. With the hand that's not doing unspeakable things to his derriere, he's reaching down to gently touch my testicles, hold them tenderly in his palm. I've not taken scissors to my pubic hair, as he's done. I've merely kept up with hygiene. It feels horrifically insignificant in comparison.

The feeling of his rough skin on my very delicate flesh is nearly enough to have me ejaculating. “John.” I croak, belatedly realising that I'm going to be monosyllabic for the foreseeable future.

My head tilts up, I'm trying to keep focus, chanting _don't orgasm, don't orgasm, don't orgasm,_ in my head, my hips rolling gently as I pant John's name. “Perfect, sweetheart. You're incredible.” He tells me breathlessly, adjusting his weight and groaning. “Touch me, Sherlock. Please.”

Blindly, I fumble for him, gasping at the sensation of him in my hand. He's hot and stiff, I can feel the blood rush to his engorged tissue, each vein pumping as I touched him, mapping out his cock with my fingers and palm. Thick, heavy, long, elastic foreskin, slippery glans leaking preejaculate. “Oh god, John.”

He moans overtop me, and the bed begins to creak and shift steadily as his body rises and falls. I can hear his fingers sliding in and out of him. “Look at me.” He commands sharply. “I want to see you.”

My vision is blurry as I look up and him, clearing away as I stare. He bows down to stare darkly at me. “You're incredible, you know?” John is growling, releasing his his on my bollocks, _thank God,_ in favour of planting a hand next to my head, stealing away another kiss, licking into my mouth, sucking my tongue again. I whine into his mouth, clamping my hands down on either of his shoulders. “All this unmarked, untouched, pale skin for me to kiss and bite.”

“Please,” my yelp has hardly escaped at all before John descends on me, latching his teeth into the underside of my jaw and biting hard, until the darkness behind my eyelids gives way to scarlet and I'm trying to press my cock into nothing. It's torture, the way he plays with me, no more than a toy for him to suck on, like a dummy for an infant. I quickly forgive him when something cool, with sheer surfaces and sharp edges is slapped into my shoulder.

“Open it.” He snaps, unwittingly encouraging me to catalogue the feel of the item on my shoulder. Aluminum, with a ring inside? A condom. “Put it on.” He continues, covering my throat with sloppy kisses and sharp little nips. “Hurry.”

I'm fumbling once more, well and truly out of my comfort zone at this rate as I steal the condom from his hand with a whispered, “yes, John,” since I feel like no more than a neophyte in the face of his expertise. It's awkward, moreso due to the fact that I've raised it to a full arm extension while I tactlessly pull on the seal until it rips open and John jumps.

I freeze in shock until he begins to laugh, reaching behind his back in search of the wayward thing. “I love what an idiot you are.” He says kindly, kissing my mouth again.

Any other moment in time, any one at all, I would be most offended by The statement, but now it is so cloyed with honey and warmth that it makes my muscles relax. “Obviously.” I reply in a bored tone, sucking in a sharp breath and going stiff once more as latex is gently rolled down the length of my very erect penis. _“Oh fuck,”_ I growl, reaching down to hold onto his hips, “John, _JesusfuckingChristyou’regoingtoruinme,”_

He smirks, biting my chin cruelly. “That's the plan,” he replies, guiding my shaft gently to where his fingers once were. The head of my penis is pressed to John's anus. I'm about to put my penis into John Watson's rectum. I'm about to reach orgasm simply from the sensation of John teasing himself and torturing me. He sits up, propped on his elbow to look at me, amused, aroused, several other _A_ words that I can remember because of the latter.

_“Gmph,_ John,” I whisper, bucking my hips, squawking at the friction. It's goddamn heavenly. I can't remember the last time I felt such euphoria. My last hit had to have been three to five years ago. Christ, what _is_ the year? My mind has boiled down to the comforting weight of John on top of me, around me, soon to be _on top of_ and _around_ me. “You're gonna make me-”

John hushed me, bearing down for a centimetre of my prick to slide inside of him. I can feel how unfathomably hot he is, the laxity of his muscle despite the rubber layer between us. “Relax, love. Just relax.” He's coaching me gently, his eyes closed tightly. I can feel myself pushing further into him. He carefully works me deeper, with slow, gentle bobs of his hips, until his thighs are flush to mine and he groans with a satisfied smile.

I cried out in shock and agony. He's so delectably tight around my cock, infernus and slick, wrapped tight around me and nearly bringing me to the edge before we can begin. Rather than fast and brutal like I was expecting: John _is_ a rather impatient individual, it would not at all be out of character got him to rise and fall with haste, plunder his own arse with my cock with the same amount of mercy he treats murderers.

As it is currently, I lie supine on his bed, snapping my hips to meet his thrusts, mindless to the inflicted pleasure. My fingers dig into the duvet, my mouth opened in a silent shout for his benevolence. For now, the only deity I worship has his name on the tip of my tongue. _“John._ Oh god, _John,_ ” I'm mindless with arousal, breathing his name as a benediction.

“Grab onto me.” John orders, and I'm helpless to his command. His thighs are startlingly powerful. I'd expected them to be strong, but I can feel the dormant power within him that he does not exert, thankfully. I've the suspicion my hips would fracture if he chose to. “Good. Excellent, now fuck me.”

My eyes have started to roll back, my head following suit. “John?”

He doesn't extrapolate, reaching down to hold me by my hip bones and yanked me upwards. “Come on.” His voice has grown aggravated. “I won't last long. I want to see you come apart first. Come on, darling, come for me.”

“John!”

“Yes, Sherlock.” He leans down, kissing me once more, hard and seeking. I can nearly taste his eager affection, smell his exhaustion in every damp gust of breath. “Hard as you can. Come on.”

I aid him in his quest to fuck me out of my mind. “God, John. John. Please. John.” I piston my hips upwards to do as he decreed. Our skin slaps as I do so, loud against a chorus of soft panting and the occasional mewl of mine. “Y-Your pr- _ahh,_ ” the word escapes me for a moment. I drag my nails from above either knee to his arse, releasing in his sharp cry of elation, “your prostate, John, I'm hitting it?”

“A bit.” He assures after a pause. My brain tells me he's lying, but I can't be bothered to care at the moment. “Grazing it is probably m- _mm-_ ore accurate.” He slams his hips down hard once and his muscles contract.

John's weight shifts, his home shifting onto and off of my prick, dragging out my orgasm with mind numbing intensity. _“Fuck!_ Jesus _Christ!”_ I roar without bothering to sensor myself. I can feel my cock pulsing as fluid pours out in a relentless flood, John's muscles bunching and relaxing under my palms, heavy warmth painting my abdomen and chest, accompanied by a hoarse shout as he comes as well, slumping down on his perch.

When my eyes manage to open it's sluggishly. It feels as though hours have passed that I've been so intimately entwined with my personal doctor. My penis is sensitive where it's sheathed in his body, my chest heaving. I only now realise how sweaty this undertaking has made me, as well as tired and utterly content. For one my mind is silent and I simply enjoy the sight of a flushed and sated John Watson on my lap, watching his body shift with each breath. I'm positively preening when he looks down at me, his face slack, hair a wreck, eyelids heavy.

Silence is a third contender sitting on the edge of the bed as he climbs carefully off of my thighs, minding the condom lest our cooperative realisation be soured by a trip to A&E and a speculum digging out a used condom from a fellow doctor's rectum.

“I'll make a run to the toilet, then. Get a wet flannel for you.” He announces, pausing when I take him by the arm and lie him back down.

I roll over, kiss him affectionately on his bristly cheek and pop up to my feet. “No need.” I take the condom from him, tie it off, and run down the stairs into the loo. I toss the thing, hop into the bath and rinse myself, before I run back up the stairs and pause in the doorway.

John sits up and looks at me, raising his eyebrows. “Oh. You came back?”

“Oh. You,” I blink at him, “you thought I wasn't going to?”

He shifts out of the middle of the bed and patted the mattress. “I didn't think you were keen on unconscious snuggling.” He replied with a languorous stretch. “I'm all for it, however. Come on over.”

I plop down beside him on my belly. “I've hardly ever been so exhausted.” I complain, humming happily as John nestles in beside me wrapping his arms ‘round my shoulders.

“Get used to it.” He tells me, pressing a damp kiss to the underside of my jaw. “More where that came from.” He groaned, low and long. “I'm not going to be cognizant much longer. Goodnight, Sh’rlock.”

I smile, then chuckle. “Goodnight, John.”

* * *

 

John may have snored and snuffled that evening, but I said nothing. Instead I basked in his warmth and closeness, the feeling of his breath rolling over my neck, growing sour as the night progressed. I woke up to kisses on my shoulders and a half-conscious handjob that brings me to my limit embarrassingly fast, grunting and sighing his name while I squirmed and rutted.

I would deny that, later, at a crime scene, I was definitely not staring at John's buttocks - in fact I was looking at his legs - and my deductions did not falter when he stood close enough to me for our clothes to brush, and I did not blush when he took my hand in his and led the way to the street where I called a cab so we could go home and replay the events of the previous evening.


End file.
